ch.nativetongue-第22部分

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　〃You　know；　I've　won　the　PGA　three　times；〃　said　Jake　Harp；　〃and　finished　third　in　the　Masters　twice。　But　I　can　honestly　say　that　I　was　never　so　honored　as　when　y'all　selected　me　as　the　touring　pro　for　beautiful　Falcon　Trace。〃
　A　voice　piped　up　near　the　stage：　〃You　rot　in　hell！〃
　A　strong　impassioned　voice…a　woman。　The　crowd　murmured　unfortably。　Jake　Harp　nervously　cleared　his　throat；　a　tubercular　grunt　into　the　microphone。
　Again　the　woman's　voice　rose：　〃We　don't　need　another　damn　golf　course。　Why　don't　you　go　back　to　Palm　Springs　with　the　rest　of　the　gangsters！〃
　Now　she　was　standing。　Joe　Winder　craned　to　get　a　good　look。
　The　famous　golfer　tried　to　make　a　joke。　Painfully　he　said；　〃I　guess　we　got　ourselves　a　golf　widow　in　the　audience。〃
　〃No；〃　the　woman　called　back；　〃a　real　widow。〃
　On　stage；　Jake　Harp　bent　over　and　whispered　something　to　the　mayor；　who　was　smoking　fiercely。　Someone　signaled　to　the　conductor　of　the　high…school　band；　which　adroitly　struck　up　a　Michael　Jackson　dance　number。　Meanwhile　three　uniformed　sheriff's　deputies　materialized　and　edged　toward　the　rude　protester。　The　woman　stood　up；　shook　a　fist　above　the　silvery　puff　that　was　her　head　and　said　something　that　Joe　Winder　couldn't　quite　hear；　except　for　the　word　〃bastard。〃
　Then　she　put　on　a　floppy　pink　Easter　bonnet　and　permitted　herself　to　be　arrested。
　Well；　hello；　thought　Winder。　The　lady　from　the　Wildlife　Rescue　Corps；　the　one　who'd　slipped　him　the　note　at　the　Amazing　Kingdom。
　Joe　Winder　watched　the　deputies　lead　the　old　woman　away。　He　wanted　to　follow　and　ask　what　in　the　hell　was　going　on；　but　she　was　quickly　deposited　in　the　back　of　a　squad　car；　which　sped　off　toward　Key　Largo。　As　Jake　Harp　resumed　his　speech；　Winder　got　up　and　walked　past　the　stage　toward　the　ocean。　In　a　few　minutes　he　found　the　familiar　stretch　of　shoreline　where　he　usually　searched　for　bonefish；　but　the　water　was　too　milky　to　see　over　the　tops　of　his　own　sneakers。　As　he　waded　into　the　flats；　he　could　hear　the　high…school　band　begin　to　play　〃The　Star　Spangled　Banner；〃　signaling　the　climax　of　the　groundbreaking　ceremony。
　As　he　slid　his　feet　across　the　rocks　and　sea　grass；　Joe　Winder　started　false…casting　his　fly；　stripping　out　the　line　as　he　moved　forward。　The　water　was　murky；　roiled；　just　a　mess。　There　would　be　no　fish　here；　Winder　knew；　but　still　he　drove　the　meat　of　the　line　seventy　feet　hard　into　the　wind；　and　watched　the　tiny　plop　of　the　fly　when　it　landed。
　Joe　Winder　fished　in　manic　motion　because　he　knew　time　was　running　out。　Before　long；　this　fine　little　bay　would　be　a　stagnant　ruin　and　the　only　fish　worth　catching　would　be　gone；　spooked　by　jet　skis；　sail…boarders；　motorboats　and　plumes　of　rank　sewage　blossoming　from　submerged　drainage　pipes。
　Wele　to　Falcon　Trace。
　He　took　another　step　and　felt　something　seize　his　right　ankle。　When　he　tried　to　pull　free；　he　lost　his　balance　and　fell　down　noisily　in　the　water。　He　landed　on　his　ass　but　quickly　rolled　to　his　knees；　careful　to　hold　the　expensive　Seamaster　fly　reel　high　and　dry。　Irritably　Winder　groped　beneath　the　surface　for　the　thing　that　had　tripped　him。
　His　fingers　closed　around　the　slick　branch　of　a　freshly　cut　tree。　He　lifted　it　out　of　the　water；　examined　it；　then　let　it　drop　again。　A　red　mangrove；　bulldozed；　ripped　out　by　the　roots　and　dumped　on　the　flats。　Illegal　as　hell；　but　who　besides　the　fish　would　ever　know？
　Joe　Winder　knelt　in　the　shallows　and　thought　about　what　to　do　next。　Back　on　the　soon…to…be…sixteenth　hole；　the　band　played　on。　After　a　while；　the　music　stopped　and　voices　could　be　heard；　collegial　chamber…of…merce　good…old…boy　voices；　dissipating　in　the　afternoon　breeze。　Not　long　afterward　came　the　sounds　of　luxury　cars　being　started。
　Eventually　the　place　got　quiet；　and　Joe　Winder　knew　he　was　alone　again　in　his　favorite　fishing　spot。　He　stayed　on　his　knees　in　the　water　until　the　sun　went　down。
　
　In　the　evening　he　drove　out　to　the　Card　Sound　Bridge　and　parked。　He　got　a　flashlight　from　the　trunk　and　began　to　walk　along　the　road；　keeping　close　to　the　fringe　of　the　trees　and　playing　the　light　along　the　ground。　Soon　he　found　the　place　where　he　had　been　beaten　by　the　two　goons；　Angel　and　Spearmint　Breath。　Here　Joe　Winder　slowed　his　pace　and　forced　himself　to　concentrate。
　He　knew　what　he　was　looking　for：　a　trail。
　He'd　spent　most　of　his　childhood　outdoors；　cutting　paths　to　secret　hideaways　in　the　hammocks；　glades　and　swamps。　At　a　young　age　he　had　bee　an　expert　woodsman；　a　master　of　disappearing　into　impenetrable　pockets　where　no　one　else　wanted　to　go。　Every　time　his　father　bought　a　new　piece　of　property；　Joe　Winder　set　out　to　explore　each　acre。　If　there　was　a　big　pine；　he　would　climb　it；　if　there　was　a　lake　or　a　creek；　he'd　fish　it。　If　there　was　a　bobcat；　he'd　track　it；　a　snake；　he'd　catch　it。
　He　would　pursue　these　solitary　adventures　relentlessly　until　the　inevitable　day　when　the　heavy　machinery　appeared；　and　the　guys　in　the　hard　hats　would　tell　him　to　beat　it；　not　knowing　he　was　the　boss's　kid。
　On　those　nights；　lying　in　his　bed　at　home；　he　would　wait　for　his　mother　to　e　in　and　console　him。　Often　she　would　suggest　a　new　place　for　his　expeditions；　a　mossy　parcel　off　Old　Cutler　Road；　or　twenty　acres　in　the　Gables；　right　on　the　bay。　Pieces　his　father's　pany　had　bought；　or　was　buying；　or　was　considering。
　Raw；　tangled；　hushed；　pungent　with　animals；　buzzing　with　insects；　glistening　with　extravagant　webs；　pulsing；　rustling　and　doomed。　And　always　the　portal　to　these　mysterious　places　was　a　trail。
　Which　is　what　Winder　needed　on　this　night。
　Soon　he　found　it：　an　ancient　path　of　scavengers；　flattened　by　raccoons　and　opossums　but　widened　recently　by　something　much　larger。　As　Winder　slipped　into　the　woods；　he　felt　ten　years　old　again。　He　followed　the　trail　methodically　but　not　too　fast；　though　his　heart　was　pounding　absurdly　in　his　ears。　He　tried　to　travel　quietly；　meticulously　ducking　boughs　and　stepping　over　rotted　branches。　Every　thirty　or　so　steps；　he　would　turn　off　the　flashlight；　hold　his　breath　and　wait。　Before　long；　he　could　no　longer　hear　the　cars　passing　on　Card　Sound　Road。　He　was　so　deep　in　the　wetlands　that　a　shout　or　a　scream　would　be　swallowed　at　once；　eternally。
　He　walked　for　fifteen　minutes　before　he　came　upon　the　remains　of　a　small　campfire。　Joe　Winder　knelt　and　sniffed　at　the　half…burned　wood；　somebody　had　doused　it　with　coffee。　He　poked　at　the　acrid　remains　of　something　wild　that　had　been　cooked　in　a　small　rusty　pan。　He　swung　the　flashlight　in　a　semicircle　and　spotted　a　dirty　cooler；　some　lobster　traps　and　a　large　cardboard　box　with　the　letters　〃EDTIAR〃　stamped　on　the　side。　On　the　ground；　crumpled　into　a　bright　pile；　was　a　fluorescent　orange　rainsuit。　Winder　unfolded　it；　held　it　up　to　gauge　the　size。　Then　he　put　it　back　the　way　he　found　it。
　Behind　him；　a　branch　snapped　and　a　voice　said；　〃How　do　you　like　the　new　pants？〃
　Winder　wheeled　around　and　pointed　the　flashlight　as　if　it　were　a　pistol。
　The　man　was　eating…and　there　was　no　mistaking　it…a　fried　snake　on　a　stick。
　〃Cottonmouth；〃　he　said；　crunching　off　a　piece。　〃Want　some？〃
　〃No　thanks。〃
　〃Then　we've　got　nothing　to　talk　about。〃
　Joe　Winder　politely　took　a　bite　of　snake。　〃Like　chicken；〃　he　said。
　The　man　was　cleaning　his　teeth　with　a　fishhook。　He　looked　almost　exactly　as　Joe　Winder　remembered；　except　that　the　beard　was　now　braided　into　numerous　silvery　sprouts　that　drooped　here　and　there　from　the　man's　jaw。　He　was　probably　in　his　early　fifties；　although　it　was　impossible　to　tell。　The　mismatched　eyes　unbalanced　his　face　and　made　his　expression　difficult　to　read；　the　snarled　eyebrows　sat　at　an　angle　of　permanent　scowl。　He　wore　a　flowered　pink　shower　cap；　sunglasses　on　a　lanyard；　a　heavy　red　plastic　collar　and　no　shirt。　At　first　Joe　Winder　thought　that　the　man's　chest　was　grossly　freckled；　but　in　the　flashlight's　trembling　beam　the　freckles　began　to　hover　and　dance：　mosquitoes；　hundreds　of　them；　feasting　on　his　blood。
　In　a　strained　voice　Joe　Winder　said；　〃I　can't　help　but　notice　that　thing　on　your　neck。〃
　〃Radio　collar。〃　The　man　lifted　his　chin　so　Winder　could　see　it。　〃Made　by　Telonics。　A　hundred　fifty　megahertz。　I　got　it　off　a　dead　panther。〃
　〃Does　it　work？〃　Winder　asked。
　〃Like　a　charm。〃　The　man　snorted。　〃Why　else　would　I　be　wearing　it？〃
　Joe　Winder　decided　this　was　something　they　could　chat　about　later。　He　said；　〃I　didn't　mean　to　bother　you。　I　just　wanted　to　thank　you　for　what　you　did　the　other　night。〃
　The　stranger　nodded。　〃No　problem。　Like　I　said；　I　got　a　pair　of　pants　out　of　the　deal。〃　He　slapped　himself　on　the　thigh。　〃Canvas；　too。〃
　〃Listen；　that　little　guy…Angel　Gaviria　was　his　name。　They　found　him　hanging　under　the　bridge。〃　Winder's　friend　at　the　medical　examiner's　office　had　confirmed　the　identity。
　〃What　do　you　know；〃　the　stranger　said　absently。
　〃I　was　wondering　about　the　other　one；　too；〃　said　Winder；　〃since　they　were　trying　to　kill　me。〃
　〃Don't　blame　you　for　being　curious。　By　the　way；　they　call　me　Skink。　And　I　already　know　who　you　are。　And　your　daddy；　too；　goddamn　his　soul。〃
　He　motioned　for　Joe　Winder　to　follow；　and　crashed　down　a　trail　that　led　away　from　the　campfire。　〃I　went　through　your　wallet　the　other　night；〃　Skink　was　saying；　〃to　make　sure　you　were　worth　saving。〃
　〃These　days　I'm　not　so　sure。〃
　〃Shit；〃　said　Skink。　〃Don't　start　with　that。〃
　After　five　minutes　they　broke　out　of　the　hardwoods　into　a　substantial　clearing。　A　dump；　Joe　Winder　noticed。
　〃Yeah；　it's　lovely；〃　muttered　Skink。　He　led　Winder　to　the　oxidized　husk　of　an　abandoned　Cadillac；　and　lifted　the　trunk　hatch　off　its　hinges。　The　nude　body　of　Spearmint　Breath　had　been　fitted　inside；　folded　as　neatly　as　a　beach　chair。
　〃Left　over　from　the　other　night；〃　Skink　explained。　〃He　ran　out　of　steam　halfway　up　the　big　bridge。　Then　we　had　ourselves　a　talk。〃
　〃Oh　Jesus。〃
　〃A　bad　person；〃　Skink　said。　〃He　would've　brought　more　trouble。〃
　An　invisible　cloud　of　foul　air　rose　from　the　trunk。　Joe　Winder　attempted　to　breathe　through　his　mouth。
　Skink　played　the　beam　ol　the　flashlight　along　the　dead　goon's　swollen　limbs。　〃Notice　the　skeeters　don't　go　near　him；〃　he　said；　〃so　in　one　sense；　he's　better　off。〃
　Joe　Winder　backed　away；　speechless。　Skink　handed　him　the　light　and　said；　〃Don't　worry；　this　i